On my bed, I search for ‘624 Cypress James County’. Various headlines unfurl:

THIRD GIRL GOES MISSING

POLICE HAVE NO LEADS

SIX GIRLS MISSING

SON, HERMAN GREEN, INVESTIGATED

FOSTER HOME SHUT DOWN

HERMAN GREEN FLEES, NO TRACE

SKELETAL REMAINS FOUND

It keeps going. Article after article. The words are bad enough, but the images…black and white photos of the girls’ gleeful faces, coupled with the grim expressions of policemen, and then there’s Herman Green himself, a twenty-something boy with a blank face and broad shoulders. A slight smile dances across his lips. He looks kind, even handsome, which disturbs me even more. Was the photo taken before he committed the crimes?

Reaching for my bedroom drawer, I pop two Advil and then slam the laptop shut. From downstairs, the phone rings again. Mrs. Green’s desperate voice warbles on the answering machine. “Hello?” she says. “Please. Is anybody there?” I listen as Mrs. Green breathes on the phone. “Hello?” She sighs audibly and then hangs up.

I creep down the stairs. The house is silent now. Outside, Jackson’s car pulls up in the driveway. A red light blinks on the answering machine. It chirps with a new message. Beth’s laughter rises from the yard. Car doors slam.

Chirp.

My finger hovers over the erase button. If only it was that easy, one button and all your problems disappear.

Chirp.

I press my finger down. Delete.

4

4

I try not to look too bored as I sit in the corner with this forty-year-old dude named Sam. Sam’s balding but hides it well with a semi-shaved head and a trim beard. Everything about this coffee shop is sterile and safe, with rules about how to wipe down the counters, how to take someone’s money, how to make delicious drinks.

There’s safety in knowing everything is in its place, and Sam looks like he’s quite comfortable being the king of this world of fifteen minute breaks and friendly reminders to always greet customers when they walk through the door.

Sam grins warmly at me across the table, and I can tell he’s well practiced in the art of smiling. “And, you’re a student at VCU?”

“Was. I’m in a transitional phase. Also, kind of ran out of money. That’s why I’m…you know.”

“Sure, sure. What were you studying?”

“Psych. Yeah.” I pick underneath my fingernails. When I catch him looking, I sit on my hands. Dappled light shines through the big floor to ceiling windows. At this point it’s not even about the money, it’s about doing something that doesn’t involve Jackson and his quest to tell me how to live my life. If I can’t escape myself, then I can at least try to escape him.

“Always found that fascinating. Human brain. Cool stuff.”